The day this column is published, I will be back at work for the first time in five weeks.

I meant to be off for two weeks, not five. But it turned out that I needed some (thankfully outpatient) surgery and additional recovery time. The experience gave me a much-needed break, and I enjoyed the unexpected time with my three kids this summer.

They seemed to enjoy it, too.

The 13-year-old read a novel and developed a social life. He (grudgingly) taught his 8-year-old sister to play chess. As you can see from the picture, we had to improvise when some of the pieces were missing.

The 11-year-old finally got a cell phone and a Facebook account. He is still chortling with glee.

The 8-year-old has decided to be a Navy SEAL when she grows up instead of a doctor. She started taking karate lessons after I explained that SEALs have to be able to fight. (The idea that women might not be able to become SEALs has aroused her feminist ire.)

My mother didn’t hold a job from the time I was born until I was 13. I don’t think she was completely comfortable with her choice to be what was then called a housewife. She raised me with the idea that I would need to support myself economically as an adult.

“You may be a mother someday, and it’s a wonderful thing to be. But you shouldn’t have to depend on anyone else to take care of you,” she told me time and again.

My mom doubted that it was possible to have it all—to be professionally successful, happily married, and fully engaged as a parent. The main thing for her was that my sister and I should have options. (I don’t know what conversations she was having with my brother on this topic.)

What we didn’t talk about was how we might move from exercising one set of options to another as we grew older and started families.

A cornerstone of my "Salary Mom" identity—other than my need to earn a living—is the conviction that I would never make it at home with my kids. The “stay-at-home” moms I know devote incredible creativity and resourcefulness to the mission of raising their kids. Much as I love my kids, I didn’t get a lot creative energy from them when they were little.

Between that and the time I don't spend with my children, I often fear that I am an inadequate parent. I work 40-45 hours a week, plus the two or three hours I spend on the road each day.

When I talk to my kids now about being an adult, I give them all the same speech my mother gave me about needing to support themselves. But I also talk to them about how they will need to balance their careers with their personal lives.

I find myself having this talk with my daughter most often, but that’s because she’s the one most interested in the topic.

“If you want to be a mommy when you grow up, you should try to find a career where you can work close to home and control what hours you work,” I tell her. “I love having a job, and we need the money I earn to afford somewhere to live. But I wish I had become a doctor or a nurse instead of a bureaucratic master.”

My sojourn at home has eased my doubts about myself as a parent to some extent. I still don't think I'm going to earn any awards for Mother of The Year. But I can see my influence in the people they are becoming, and it feels pretty good.